Whatever Dosen't Kill Us
by inner-city-assassin
Summary: The Colonel fled across the desert and the wanderer followed. Fueled by revenge and honor the wanderer will find him. Find him and kill him.
1. Chapter 1

10/14/10

The Colonel fled across the desert and the wanderer followed. Hundreds of miles of terrain, millions of steps, and oceans of blood stood between the two. The remains of the post-apocalyptic United States were not places were one traveled lightly, or lightly armed for that matter.

The wanderer moved lightly and fast, as he always had. His custom .44 magnum revolver with its matte black finish and large compensator giving the hand-cannon a box-like look rested on his thigh, above that were two gun-belts crossing above his crotch. They were full of shiny brass casings, the only things that glinted in the light. Black pants and boots covered his lower half; a long, thick black coat was worn over a simple black tactical vest which doubled as light combat armor. His face was covered by a grey bandanna and black sunglasses, only his silver streaked black hair was visible. A long blade, the sheath wrapped in dirty, grey cloth was fitted across his back. Any other supplies he carried were stored in saddlebags that lay behind the seat on the ancient pre-war motorcycle he had gotten working.

He had been chasing the Colonel for several weeks now, and if it hadn't been for the mapping data provided by the Elder he never would have made it this far.

_Find Him and kill Him._

These were the only thoughts that ran through the wanderer's mind as he raced across the remains of a pre-war highway.

All thoughts of happiness and peace were gone from his mind, after the Colonel had played his hand there had been no choice, the only option he had was to follow him.

Hours passed and the sun set, and the wanderer was forced to stop, fatigue and pain ran over him like smooth, constant, rhythmic waves. He killed the bikes fission battery powered engine and made camp for the night. Sleep came to him quickly but he slept light with his one good eye open; one could never be too careful in the wasteland.

His paranoia was well served, for a mere hour after he lapsed into sleep a band of raiders descended silently upon him. There were four in all, only one carried a gun, a battered .357 revolver, the rest had blunt or bladed hand weapons. One with a sledge hammer skulked toward the wanderer silently raising the hammer as she approached, just as she began to swing the hammer down a hand shot up and grabbed it by the haft. The wanderer was looking up at her with a split gaze, one eye shining an overly bright grey; a color more akin to molten silver, the other was a blazing red prosthetic. He quickly pulled, throwing the raider off balance then lashed out with a strike to the raider's knee, she went down and a knife pulled from a sleeve found a new sheath in her spine. By then the wanderer was up, letting go of the knife and pulling the corpse up with him-a human shield. The one with the revolver fired a trio of sloppily aimed shots, only one hit his former compatriot's torso. The wanderer dropped the body as he sprang forward, drawing his revolver as he did. What seemed like a lifetime of killing instincts allowed him to aim the gun without thinking; his first shot tore into a raider's chest, the second ripped a man's jaw off. Then it was only him and the one the .357, they stood there with their guns trained on each other. "Looks like we got ourselves a draw here kid," said the raider with bravado, "There ain't no way you can pull that trigger before I plug ya." The wanderer just looked down the sights with his disquieting gaze; finally he let out a slight sigh.

"You don't pull the trigger," he said quietly.

"Huh?" started the raider, not understanding what his victim was saying.

"You squeeze it," finished the wanderer, punctuating his sentence by brushing his finger across the hair trigger of his .44. The raider didn't have time to realize what had happened before he felt death's embrace take him. The wanderer stood there, rooted in the same spot as his gun cooled quickly in the night. Words escaped his lips, prayers for the fallen, prayers asking God to forgive them for their sins. Prayers asking God to forgive _him_.

Seconds later it was over, and the wanderer was searching the corpses, tucking anything useful into a bag one of them had been carrying; food, some dirty water, a Nuka-cola, the .357 and what little ammo there was, and a few caps. Then he laid back down on his bedroll and slept amongst the dead.

He awoke when the dawn broke, his eye picking up on the faint rays of sunlight. Climbing onto the bike he pulled up the sleeve of his coat and checked the screen that was on the inside of his left forearm. It was a replacement, salvaged from the ruins of his last battle after the Colonel had taken his arm. It had taken weeks of work, but with help he had managed to get a functioning prosthetic. Full range of motion and increased strength, powered by mechanics and synthetic muscle he could crush power armor if he had to. His old device was gone and a new one had been built as a replacement using an upgraded operating system. That new system was what allowed him to use such a large map.

The map showed he was close, maybe fifty miles out, to a small town known only as Drift. He could make that in a couple of days if the terrain was good. Problem with the bike was that he couldn't take direct routes sometimes; otherwise he would have caught up with the Colonel already.

He thumbed the bike's activation switch. Nothing. Getting off, he bent down to check the engine compartment. And one of bullets the raider had fired the night before had gone through the thin, worn metal casing and had hit the power converter. _"The only part that I can't fix,"_ thought the wanderer. With only a heavy sigh he grabbed his bags, spending a few minutes to tie them into the shape of a pack and set off- leaving the dead to rest in the sun.


	2. Chapter 2

10/14/10

Drift, a shithole of a town, he knew that the second he stepped onto the main street. Maybe a dozen buildings all in the style of an old western town, the folk looking every bit the part; they even had appropriate suspicious glares. The wanderer walked down one side of the street, thankful that he had pulled on an old eye-patch to hide his prosthetic; the people would look upon him with enough suspicion without it. He glanced around quickly, looking for a store. He saw one almost at once, it's sign reading, "Drift Goods," and moved toward it; he wanted to drop some of the parts for the bike he had brought with him.

He pushed open the old door, solid after over two hundred years and moved into the slightly cooler interior. A counter that was empty stayed so for only a few seconds before he had dropped his pack with a heavy_ thunk_ onto it. The noise drew a middle aged man from a room in the back.

"Hey there newcomer," he called his voice rough and weathered; it reflected the man it came from.

"Hey," replied the wanderer who had already begun unpacking some of the gear from the pack.

"I don't usually deal with people whose face I can't see," said the shopkeeper, a not so subtle hint to drop the bandanna and lose the glasses. The wanderer nodded and did just that. The bandanna came down revealing sharp facial features that weren't weathered so much that they looked like old leather; the signs of a relatively young man. Pre-war he would have been called handsome, but here the only use good looks had where if you were trying to get some trim for the night. Scars marred the image though; one cut down over his right eye, mostly covered by the eye-patch and a second started at his chin and traced a jagged line up across his mouth and onto his left cheek. The older man's eyes took that all in in a second and then focused on the kid's one eye. The color was odd enough, but it was the shape of the pupil that stood out; it was a diamond, a black four pointed diamond.

The wanderer noticed the man's gaze meet his and offered an explanation. "Radiation got a drop of some goo in my eye a while back, lucky it didn't "

"Alright, sorry I asked," replied the man, "Name's Marston."

"Its fine, not a problem," he said as Marston began to look through the parts that he had placed on the counter. After several minutes Marston spoke.

"With all of these parts I can offer you twelve hundred caps." The wanderer nodded, accepting the deal.

"I'll see if you have anything I'd like," already moving among Marston's goods, picking out a parts kit for the .357 along with a box of rounds.

"That'll drop ya down to one thousand and fifty," the wanderer nodded again and leaned against the counter while Marston counted out the caps. A minute later he was handed a decent sized bag, which he tucked into a coat pocket. Another question and the wanderer was out the door and header toward the saloon, looking for both a drink and information.

The saloon was like the rest of the buildings in the town; rickety, old- it wouldn't survive a frag grenade going off inside. He pushed through the door and took in the interior in the blink of an eye. Dark, smoke hovering around head level, several tables and tables spread throughout the room, a long bar against the back wall with several bottles of various booze on the shelf behind it, and maybe a dozen townsfolk trying to drown the hell that was wasteland life in the alcohol. He found his gaze resting on the bartender; a young redhead, maybe a year in either direction of his age. He took notice of the stairs on one side and guessed that she was also the local working girl. He moved in her direction, pulling the bandanna down again to show her his smile that sent a buzz down her spine.

"Howdy mister," she purred, he had gotten her attention, "What can I do ya for?"

"I could use a bottle- whiskey if you got it, and some information," said the wanderer his voice for once more than a whisper, it came out strong, confident, but low enough to make her lean forward just a bit. He leaned in as well, dropping his voice so that his next were much lower; like a whisper to a lover, "I'm looking for someone."

"Ain't we all," replied the redhead as she reached behind her to grab a bottle, "ten caps." The wanderer dropped twenty onto the bar.

"Now that information, I'm looking for an older man; taller than me, grey-black hair, would have been carrying a laser pistol and wearing a long white coat," the wanderer uncapped the bottle as he spoke and took a long pull once he finished.

"Did he speak in odd accent?" she asked, they were close enough to touch, she felt the heat coming off of his skin and smelled the heavy scent of his leather coat. In turn he noticed the same things she did and knew that he was tilting the conversation in his favor.

"Yes, it would have been clipped, very precise."

"Yeah, I saw him, he came in just a couple of days ago. Rented a room and left just this morning." The wanderer's eyes widened at the news. He was this close? He quickly pulled back from the young woman and drained that bottle with all the skill of a pro and began to turn when he heard the unmistakable sound of an energy weapon powering up.

"Hey kid," came a voice from behind him, "It's been a while."


End file.
